Sam's Breath
by thatcaliber
Summary: That night Dean was facing Sam's back, looking at the soft skin of the nape of his neck where his hair had fallen out of the way. His soft baby hairs stuck out every which way. They were mesmerizing. Before he'd known he'd done it he'd scooted forward, smoothed those little hairs up so they were going the same direction, and then pressed a gentle kiss to the spot they had been.


The patched up cracks sprawled like stretch marks across the skin of the road. Dean's eyes followed each one as they spiraled away underneath the Impala. He knew he should have been focusing more on what was ahead of them rather than what they were leaving behind, but he was bored. After all, the road before them looked pretty similar to what they'd been driving on for the last six hours. Sammy was asleep next to him. He briefly considered scaring him awake, but he decided against it. Instead he turned his eyes back to the road.

Dean finally pulled up in front of the Bat Cave. Sam didn't wake when they stopped. Dean looked over at him, hunched down in the seat. Sam was very still. Dean tried to quell the rising panic he felt. He watched Sam, hoping for the slightest movement, but was rewarded with nothing. The lump in his throat so large he couldn't breathe, Dean reached his hand out, holding the back of it in front of Sam's mouth. After a moment Sam's breath ghosted gently over his skin.

Relief slammed itself into Dean and his breath caught hard. As the fear receded he became very aware of the tears in his eyes and the shake in his spine. Fists balled in his lap, he swallowed hard and then breathed deeply, angry at his weakness. He needed to be in better control of these things, but this was Sam—his Sammy—and he was terrified. He would feel better if Sam were being attacked by a demon or a ghost; he knew how to deal with those. He had no idea what he was dealing with here which meant he had no idea how to protect Sam from it.

He spent a few minutes trying to relax before he reached over and shook Sam's arm. "Wake up, we're home."

Home.

What a strange thing.

"It's been a long time, huh Sam?" Dean said as he looked out the window. He couldn't look at Sam for fear that Sam would see that he had been crying.

"I dunno, we haven't been gone _that_ long," Sam said groggily.

"No, I mean since we've had a home."

Sam was quiet for a few seconds. "Yeah," he said after a while, sounding suddenly very unlike he'd just been asleep.

Dean sat the plate of pasta in front of Sam. Sam grinned, wasting no time in grabbing his fork and shoving the food into his mouth. "Road food sucks even more now when I know I could be here having food you cooked."

"I'm straight up an Iron Chef, Sammy," Dean said proudly. He never knew he'd like cooking this much.

Actually, he liked everything about having this place. He liked cleaning it, decorating it, watching movies with Sam in it. Once again his heart lurched as his brain reminded him that he might not have Sam for very much longer. When he thought about it, he liked doing them _with_ and _for_ Sam. It wasn't about the house; it was about sharing something normal with Sam. He'd never tell Sam that, of course. Couldn't have Sammy thinking he'd been domesticated.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked, looking at his plate. He still didn't want to look at Sam because he was afraid he would burst into tears if he did and he couldn't do that. He was the big brother, the rock. He had to be the strong one for Sam, because that's what big brothers did.

"Great now that I'm eating this," Sam said, not bothering to stop chewing.

"Are you still coughing up blood?"

"Um, sometimes," Sam said, slowing his eating a little. He didn't want to talk about this, but he was trying to be a good sport.

"Is there anything else going on?" Dean asked. He still wasn't looking up.

"Nothing I can't handle, really," Sam replied, setting his fork down.

"Oh, good," was all Dean said, sticking a noodle in his mouth. He was trying to act normal, but even he could tell that he wasn't doing a very good job.

"Dean," Sam said after a short and awkward pause. "I can't tell you I'm going to be okay, because I don't know if I am and I promised I wouldn't lie to you. I _can_ tell you that you worrying over me like this isn't going to change anything."

"I can't help but worry about you. You might be dying," Dean snapped.

Sam didn't know what to say, so he poked at his plate.

Dean sighed, realizing he'd been meaner than necessary, and said more gently, "Worrying about you is what I do, Sam. It's what I've done since you were born. I don't know any other way. Sometimes I swear that worrying about you is 9/10ths of my personality." It was a sad attempt at a joke. Sometimes saying the truth worked as a joke, sometimes it didn't.

Sam just looked sad.

"I wish you didn't have to always be worrying about me, Dean," he finally said.

"Actually, Sammy, I'm surprised I'm not getting more anger out of you right now," Dean said because he didn't know what else to say.

"Why?"

"Because you usually get pissed and say I'm babying you."

"I guess I don't have the energy to be mad anymore. And I know that you mean well. I know that I'm sick and even if I don't want you to worry about me, I think _you _need you to worry about me so that you feel like you're doing something."

"Ouch, Sammy," Dean said jokingly, though genuinely a little offended because he'd struck it right on the head.

Later that night Dean woke up to the sound of Sam coughing in his room. Their rooms weren't even that close together, but Dean could hear it as though Sam were just outside his door. Dean sat up slowly, listening. He didn't want to rush in and bother Sam because he didn't want to make him mad, but he wanted to know he was okay. Sam continued to cough, coughing so hard he started making gagging noises. That was it and Dean threw himself out of the bed and down the hall.

Sam was sitting up in his bed, the covers tangled around his legs, violently coughing and gagging into his hands. Tears were streaming down his face from the effort and pain. Dean jumped onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Sam. He didn't know what to do. He pulled Sam's hair out of his face with shaky hands, trying to tuck it behind his ears. He stroked Sam's hair, his back, his neck, his arms—anything he could reach until the coughing finally abated.

When Sam did finally stop, Dean pulled him into his chest, holding him tightly. Sam was too weak to fight it and fell limply down, curling up with his head in Dean's lap. Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair, not taking his eyes off his brother for a moment. He watched every breath.

After about half an hour Sam opened his eyes, shifting his head to look up at Dean who still had not taken his eyes off his brother's face. "I'm sorry," he rasped.

"For what?" Dean whispered, as if afraid to disturb the quiet.

"For waking you up and for scaring you."

"There is no reason for you to be sorry."

"You can go back to bed now, you don't have to take care of me," Sam said, lifting himself off Dean's lap and rolling onto his pillow.

"Sam, maybe I don't_ have_ to, but will you please _let_ me take care of you?" Dean said, a little anger creeping into his voice. "I _want_ to take care of you. It's not an imposition or whatever you think it is."

"I don't know Dean, I don't like you worrying about me," Sam said. His eyes were closed and he looked absolutely wretched. Dean could see the bags under his eyes even in the dark.

"I'm going to worry about you whether or not you like it, so you might as well shut the hell up about it."

Up until this point Sam had had the palms of his hands hidden against his chest, but when he moved his left one slightly to gesture as he spoke, Dean noticed the darkness on them and flipped on the lamp before Sam could even respond.

He snatched Sam's wrists, looking at the now dried blood covering his palms. "This is why I worry Sam!" Dean yelled, no longer able to control his worried rage. "Do you see this Sam? This is fucking cause for concern! Why didn't you show me this earlier? You're sitting here telling me not to take care of you when your hands are literally covered in your own blood. Why didn't you show me?"

Sam only shrugged weakly, his eyes still closed. Dean saw the tears spilling down his face and immediately felt like the worst human being on earth. He was also even more terrified now. Sam was never this pathetic, even in the worst of times.

"Sam, please," Dean almost pleaded, "don't cry. I'm sorry I yelled, that wasn't fair, but you've got to tell me these things, man." Dean set Sam's hands gently back on the bed. "I'll be right back," he said, slowly getting off the bed, trying to not jostle Sam.

Dean came back moments later with a wet rag and set to cleaning the blood off Sam's hands. He gingerly wiped every inch before setting the bloody rag on the table by the bed and shutting the lamp off.

"I'm sleeping in here tonight," he said as matter-of-factly as he could so Sam wouldn't argue.

He didn't. He simply rolled over, so that his back was facing Dean.

Dean wasn't going to let that discourage him and wrapped his body around Sam's. Dean didn't care what it looked like and he didn't care what Sam thought. He was going to comfort him like he had when they were little. Sam didn't fight it and was asleep within minutes. Dean hardly slept that night; he was too focused on listening to Sam's breathing.

Sam acted really tough the next few days. Dean could tell he was ashamed of the feebleness he'd shown the night of the coughing fit. Dean, however, refused to accept his façade and hadn't slept in his own bed since. Dean also thought Sam looked a little better than he had looked on the night of the fit. This sickness was a very up and down thing. Sometimes Sam could throw a decent punch and other times he couldn't even stand up straight. Dean liked to pretend that this upward turn of events was due to him (he had to think he was doing something, after all).

That night Dean was facing Sam's back, looking at the soft skin of the nape of his neck where his hair had fallen out of the way. His soft baby hairs stuck out every which way. They were mesmerizing. Before he'd known he'd done it he'd scooted forward, smoothed those little hairs up so they were going the same direction, and then pressed a gentle kiss to the spot they had been.

Sam had stiffened at the initial contact and then gasped at the sensation of Dean's kiss, a shiver running through his spine. "Uh, Dean? What was that?"

Dean, in his embarrassment, got defensive. "A kiss, moron, what did you think it was?"

"That's about what I thought it was," Sam said hesitantly.

"I'm glad we're on the same page, now shut up."

Sam was silent for a while before turning to face Dean.

"Oh shut up Sam," Dean said.

"I didn't say anything," he responded.

"I could see in your eyes that you were going to."

"Why'd you kiss me, Dean?"

"See, this is why I told you to shut your mouth."

"Yeah, probably not going to happen. Why'd you kiss me Dean?"

"I just did." Dean hesitated for a bit. "I'm really worried about you, Sammy. I just want to care for you and make it all better. I hate seeing you like this and I don't want to lose you again. We're just starting to get along again. I just want to hold you and tell you it will all be okay."

"Thank you, Dean."

"I don't think you mean that."

"I do. I realize I've been fighting your help, but I can't just sit around and be cared for when there's so much to do."

"Why can't you let me care for you when we're sitting here in bed not doing anything anyway?" Dean asked sadly. He was very filled with emotion. All he wanted to do was care for Sam. It was an ache he could feel in his bones.

"I guess I don't actually have an argument for that," Sam said after a short pause. He looked up at Dean's miserable face. He was stunned by the sheer amount of distress he saw there. "I should probably let you," Sam reached out, putting his hand on Dean's forearm. "I guess it's actually kind of selfish of me to refuse your help so much when it's obviously tearing you apart. From now on I'll let you take care of me a little more, especially at night. I'm still going to fight and research and try to figure these things out, but when I'm in downtime, you can do whatever you want."

Dean couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. Part of him was pretty sure Sam would never give in. Once again overwhelmed with emotion, he put his hand to Sam's cheek and pulled him close, kissing him softly and slowly on the forehead. He pulled his mouth away, pressing his forehead to Sam's and closing his eyes. "Thank you."

They sat like that for a moment. Dean could feel Sam's breath getting a little faster and Sam's hand pressed firmly to his chest. That was when he realized what the intimate contact was doing. They had both been alone too long, so it was no wonder that something so simple could get Sam going. Dean considered letting his brother go, but he found that he didn't want to. He was relieved to finally have Sam close enough to hold and protect that he was incredibly reluctant to let go.

Instead he found himself dragging his fingertips down Sam's neck. He could hear Sam's mouth open as a sharp but quiet breath came bursting out. He pressed his lips to Sam's forehead again, then to his cheek, his jaw, his chin, his lips. It was too late now to back out.

Dean kissed Sam slowly, feeling every bit of his lips. Sam kissed back tentatively. Dean put his hand back on Sam's cheek, stroking tenderly. Sam's fist balled up in his shirt. Dean sucked Sam's lower lip into his mouth and pulled it away slowly, letting it slide wetly out from between his lips.

As they kissed Dean moved his hands down along Sam's body, slipping his fingers beneath Sam's shirt and running them along his prominent hip bone. He slid back along Sam's back, feeling the tight muscles, and pulled Sam even closer to him. Sam groaned into Dean's mouth, barely more than a breath.

Dean massaged Sam's back gently with his one hand. He made a mental note that he needed to massage Sam for real later, especially judging by the soft and contented sighs coming from his mouth. Dean moved his hand up to Sam's neck, Sam's shirt bunching up between them. After kneading his fingertips into the muscles there for a brief moment, Dean pulled his hand out and pressed Sam firmly onto his back so that he could pull the shirt off entirely.

The shirt left Sam's hair ruffled around his head so after tossing it to the side, Dean reached down and smoothed it with tender hands. Sam set his hands softly on Dean's forearms, wanting to feel the muscles there. Dean slid his thumb affectionately over Sam's right cheekbone. Sam's mouth was open ever so slightly, his eyebrows sloping faintly downwards over confused but loving eyes. They both knew that what they were doing was wrong, but at this point neither of them really cared. The love overwhelmed the guilt and the fear.

Dean leaned down to kiss him again and Sam squeezed Dean's arms warmly. Dean pressed his tongue into Sam's mouth, searching out Sam's own. Sam moved his left hand up to Dean's cheek, slanting his head for a better angle while rubbing his hips against Dean's. Dean gripped his hand into the hair at the base of Sam's neck, groaning into his mouth. After a few seconds Dean pulled away and kissed along Sam's neck, then slowly down his chest and belly, pausing to give special attention to his jutting hip bones. Sam breathed hard, trying to control the urge to buck. Dean sat up, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the side.

From this vantage point he could see how Sam's erection was struggling against the fabric of his boxers. A sliver of skin could be seen through the hole in the front. He reached through and pulled it from the hole, dragging his fingertips lazily over the veiny skin. Sam grunted low in his throat, thrusting slightly against Dean's hand. Dean gripped Sam's cock with his whole hand, squeezing with each fingertip separately before jacking it slowly up and down. With his other hand he caressed Sam's thighs, his stomach, his chest.

Sam had his hands balled into the sheets, his eyes closed and his mouth open. He had thrown his head back, the tendons and veins in his neck straining. Dean hooked his fingers into Sam's boxers and pulled them off him, then slid his body slowly up Sam's to suck on his neck. Sam pressed his fingertips into Dean's back, touching anywhere he could while Dean softly bit and kissed everywhere he could reach. Sam rutted against Dean's hips, desperately wanting release.

Dean moved away to pull his own boxers off and grab the small bottle of lube he knew Sam kept in the bedside table. Sam gave him a suspicious look, wondering how exactly he knew that was there. Dean gave him a sly grin and no answers as he dropped low and pulled the tip of Sam's penis into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around it a few times before pausing to cover his fingers in the lube. He used his right hand to direct Sam's cock into his mouth again while using his left to press a finger firmly against Sam's hole.

Slowly, he pushed his finger in and Sam gasped. Dean hooked his finger to press against Sam's prostate, eliciting another rough gasp. He moved slowly, mimicking his pace with his mouth. He drug the tip of his tongue firmly up the underside of Sam's cock and Sam grabbed onto the back of his head, clutching what little hair he could. Dean pressed a second finger in, using them to work Sam open as gently as he could. He pulled his mouth away and kissed slowly up and down Sam's belly and hips. Sam was moaning deep in his throat, the sound rumbling all the way through his body.

Eventually Dean had worked Sam open and was able to pull his fingers out. Sam gasped at the sudden emptiness, but Dean was quick to press his penis to Sam's hole, promising to fill it back up. Dean moved as slowly as he could considering his cock was throbbing at this point. Once he was finally all the way in Sam he paused, appreciating the sensation. He kissed Sam's lips and Sam used his hips to urge Dean on, but Dean continued to hold still.

Finally, he began to move in a pace that the word leisurely does not even cover. It was torturously slow, but in the most glorious way. Sam panted in Dean's ears, pressing his hands firmly into Dean's shoulder blades. Each time Dean hit his prostate Sam cried out loudly. Dean kissed Sam's neck and jawbone, one hand pressed firmly to the side of Sam's face and the other gripping the back of his neck. Sam ran his hands up and down Dean's back and sides, touching everything he could.

"Dean, oh Dean," he cried softly between breaths. Dean grunted into Sam's hair, breathing in the smell of his sweat and shampoo.

He continued his relaxed pace while Sam writhed beneath him. Dean feared that moving much quicker would hurt Sam, but he also enjoyed the magnificent torment he was putting Sam through. He kissed Sam's lips, enjoying the feeling of Sam's breath pressing roughly into his mouth. Sam came on their stomachs with a loud groan. The sensation of Sam's cock pulsing against his stomach, the slickness between them, and the sound of Sam's rough voice was enough to send Dean into his own orgasm. He rocked hard into Sam, burying himself as deeply into Sam as he could as he came. Sam cried out with him, pressing his fingers into Dean's ass.

Dean lay on top of Sam a moment longer before rolling off, fearful of impeding Sam's ability to breathe now that the adrenaline was starting to fade from his body. Sam's eyes were closed. He was clearly tired, not surprisingly so. Sex was exhausting work for someone as sick as Sam. Dean reached out and tucked Sam's hair behind his ear, then kissed his forehead.

"Thank you for letting me take care of you, Sammy. Sleep well."

Sam smiled a little and nodded. He was half asleep already. Dean stroked his thumb along Sam's jawbone until he snorted a bit and Dean knew for sure he was asleep. Sam rolled over, his back facing Dean. Dean wasn't able to sleep yet because he was too caught up in his own head. He didn't regret what they'd done, but he was also scared. He was scared to be so far away from right, from the status quo. He was also afraid of getting _more_ attached to Sammy, if that were even possible, and then losing him. However, he knew in his heart that now that they'd crossed that line he would never be able to stop.

A dusting of dark moles spread across Sam's back like a trail Dean wanted to follow. He allowed his eyes to lead him along the ridges and hollows made by his muscles and bones. He knew he should have been focusing more on what was ahead of them rather than what they were leaving behind, but he was scared. After all, the road before them was completely different than anything they'd known before. As Sammy slept next to him he briefly considered kissing the back of his neck again, but he decided against it for fear of waking him. Instead he closed his eyes.


End file.
